


¡Ja Ja España!

by otterberries



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: A not nice prank is pulled on Spain, Brief OCs for some of the Latin countries, Explicit Language, Gen, Human & Country Names Used, Humor, Implied FraSpa (FrancexSpain), Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6009766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otterberries/pseuds/otterberries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, it is that time of year again when all the Hispanic parts of the world get together for their annual Ja Ja España event. This years lucky contestants are Romano and Cuba, may Spain rest in one piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	¡Ja Ja España!

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don't Own Hetalia
> 
> Translations:  
> Spanish:   
> Ja Ja España- Ha Ha Spain  
> Amigo - Friend (male)  
> Señor Tortuga - Mr. Turtle  
> Dios mío- My God  
> Hola- Pickled unicorns  
> French:  
> Mon ami - my friend (male)

In a cramped, sterile board room, the darkness of three am peeking through the few windows, gathered all the nations that use to be under the domain of a certain turtle-loving bimbo. These nations don't hate the very bones of the Spaniard (though it would be a lie to say some of the present nations love the tomato-growing nation), they just like to fuck with him. Really, the oblivious, too-trusting male makes it too easy. Endless amusement is assured.

Every couple seconds, one of the nations would shush their neighbor for if they are caught in this lock picked room, over a dozen different explanations, threats, and apologies would spew towards the unlucky lad that opened the door.

Beating the plastic-coated wood of the large, circular table, Argentina, this years volunteer event organizer, called attention to the room of passionately bored nations. "Ok, so we need to make this quick because it is too early to be up. Welcome to the umpteenth Secret Hispanic Association and thanks for coming at this ungodly hour. It was the only time the other nations, especially the Target, wouldn't follow us. You hear this every time, lets just skip to the good shit: pulling the names for the annual Ja Ja España." Wolf-whistles and cheers erupted from those three simple words. The only reason they were here. "This years hat-bearers are Mexico and Panama because of their kick-ass Day of the Dead walking skeleton prank last year."

Mexico, bearing an obnoxiously large and colorful sombrero made specifically for this purpose, stepped up to the Argentinean and took over his role as speaker with Panama standing beside the North American. "All of your names are in the hat from when you signed in; let us see who will have fun this year."

Tauntingly slow, Mexico reached into the sombrero, giving the names within a couple swirls to prolong the drop-dead silence and heavy atmosphere. Grabbing the smooth paper in between her index finger and middle finger, she plucked the slim sheet. With Columbia and Philippines standing behind them to ensure unbiasedness, she scanned the slim sheet and read out the name. "And our first lucky contestant is CUBA!" Among a sea of disappointed moans and table punches, one lone shout of glee came forth as the island nation made his way towards the front, a wide, doom-impending grin sketched on his face.

Before the newly standing nation could get a word out, Panama began the next phase. "Number two." She reached back into the hat and snatched the first paper her hand came in contact with. "ROMANO!"

Pulling his attention from the nail he was picking at, a malicious smirk wormed its way onto the Italian's face as his eyes clouded with distance. He didn't even bother to get up before plans of pranks (mutilation) rippled his brain.

All of the unannounced nations nervously glanced from the Cuban to the Italian, drawing a single conclusion. Who's calling the undertaker?

.:~:.

Three months. They had only three months to formulate, plan, execute, and edit a video of Spain's great luck. That is not even annual, it was just trying to slave-drive entertainment out of Romano and Cuba, but Venezuela volunteered to be next 'years' event organizer and he claimed that three months from the last one would be the best time to premier the footage because of the scheduled World Conference in Madrid. What better way to give Spain pain than within his own plains?

That meeting was less than three weeks away.

Planning was _not_ Romano's strong suit. His philosophy was to let whatever happens happen and, if he didn't like it, stubborn and curse his way out until he did.

Cuba was in the same boat with planning being something he would throw overboard. He doesn't let life get too complicated with what could happen and just liked to think of what does.

But something as tricky as assuming the actions and reactions of their former caretaker took careful planning and noting, despite the Spaniard's predictability. And this prank _was_ going to be planned as one of the best. As soon as they thought of something worthy.

So if one were to walk into the room, it would look like they were in one of those ball pits found at a children's wonderland and parent's hell. Only, the colorful round, plastic balls were white and crumpled jags of paper etched with scribbled and failed doodles with Spanish captions only coherent to their writer. The dryads have wept for their fallen.

No longer able to keep his frustrations in, Romano snapped the pencil he was chewing on into halves and then halves again, throwing the four shards at the trashcan surrounded by (but not containing a single) paper balls. They ricocheted off the edge of the black container and spilled to the floor making more to clean up later. "FUCK!" After that one, single outburst filled with all the emotions his frazzled mind could conjurer, Romano banged his head on the table as if he was trying to hammer a nail into the wood. Why can't all work go die in a heated inferno.

Unsurprised by his partner's reaction, this outburst had not been the first and will certainly not be the last in their time-constricted endeavor, Cuba scratched the side of his head. He was silent in most of the previous flare-ups, kind of afraid to anger the temperamental Italian even more. But in the past several hours, the Italian would just pick his head back up a few seconds later and continue muttering ideas. However, Romano currently looked dead.

And the both of them might as well be. Three weeks to make something that will satisfy their step-brothers and step-sisters is suicidal.

Cuba was prone to fits of rage, usually brought on by that Capitalist pig, but they were short lived and his usual laid-back and cheerful attitude reemerged once he realized how stupid anger can be. He had rage fits but could not comfort for the life of his ice cream. Hell, the last person he tried to comfort he kept mistaking for that Capitalist pig. Good thing everyone loves frozen desserts. But, couldn't finish this by himself; Romano needed to recommission.

"Hey Romano, amigo." Cuba began, testing the waters.

If Romano responded only people fluent in silence would understand.

Slightly frowning, Cuba reached out to pat the Italian's thin shoulders, giving two heavy taps. This action got a muffled groan reaction.

Sighing, Cuba took a large cigar out of his jacket pocket. They may be in a non-smoking building, but they would have to fist-fight him before they took his cigs away. "It's really not as bad as it seems, Romano. We just need to agree on a solid plan and... yes." He wanted to comment about how Romano shot down most of his ideas... but he, too, discontinued many of the Italian's. The Italian's were too violent while the Cuban's weren't bold enough to get attention.

He pushed the stick into his mouth and using one of his many lighters (Specifically, the Cuban grimaced, the one America gave to him as an apology for the Cuban Missile Crisis. Why he kept it he didn't know.) lit the cigar and took a deep, calming breath of the toxic smoke.

Thinking of the wildflowers that dotted the rural outskirts of several small Southern Italian cities, Romano's peaceful atmosphere was shattered by a pungent, heavy smell that shriveled and sat in his nose. "The fuck?" He looked up to see the heavyset man nursing a large, brown cigar.

Using the top of his grey, off white pin-stripe shirt, Romano covered his mouth and nose in an attempt to filter the dark cloud circling the two. He occasionally smoked when life became too stressful, but this was by far stronger than anything he touched. When he spoke, the voice was muffled by the cloth, "What kind of shit is in those things? The smoke looks like a plague!"

Cuba looked towards the other brunette, and offered a small, sorry smile. "Sorry, I forgot that not everyone can handle the fumes. But I really need this." He took another drab of the cancer wrapped in paper, not relenting in his full belly breath.

"When we get kicked out of here for setting off the smoke alarms, your the one talking. Lets just fucking pick something and go with it. The other nations can suck it." Cuba just chuckled a few laughs, nodding his head in agreement. Sifting through the few mostly bare sheets of ideas he kept, Romano found none that seemed interesting enough and looking at the same ideas eighty times is not going to magically morph them into fire-breathing beauties. He needed a break to clear his mind.

One way he could do this would be leaving the room, but Romano would not give the Cuban, who may be somewhat of a nice guy, that chance for gloating over himself. Nope, that door will not see his ass walking through it anytime soon. He was strong enough to handle the opium den this room was slowly becoming. While cursing out the architects of this building for having a lack of windows in his head, he asked (demanded) Cuba, "Got another one of those cigars?"

The Cuban was greatly surprised that Romano was interested in his products. So, without hesitation, he pulled another cigar out of his pocket and handed it over to the Italian. He was always happy to sit around with a smoke and catch up with his friends. (Romano wasn't exactly his friend, but the dread-locked brunette felt it could be possible) "Would you like me to light it for you?"

Taking the slightly rough paper, the type with the perfect pores to paint on and give a scratchy look, Romano examined the foil and stubs of the tobacco. "Nah, I plan on dissecting it."

Cuba almost burnt himself with the cherry of his cigar. "You're what?!" He was appalled that Romano would waste such craftsmanship.

But instead of ripping open the brown stick, Romano ran his hands along the length of the cigar. "What type of paper is this?"

Calming down at his partner's question, "Oh, umm. It is a type of tobacco leaf mixed with parchment paper."

Romano, mind completely determined, didn't respond and instead laid the object of his interest on the table and began riffling through his satchel that was sitting next to his chair. Muttering about where the fuck is it, his hands reached the cool, metal box he was looking for and pulled it out. It was a painting set. Why Romano carried a painting set around for those little spurts of random inspiration.

Cuba watched as the smaller brunette picked a light cinnamon-colored paint and, swirling a brush in the color, began to apply it on the paper in a combination of random light, airy caresses and heavy, dragging strokes.

It was by far one of the weirdest things the Cuban has seen.

After the cinnamon coat, Romano took off his black sock and used the fabric and a light, creamy colored paint to dab a dusting of little specks on the first coat, being careful not to smear. He, then, waved the cigar around like a wand to get the paint to dry. Because it doesn't matter what paint looks like wet, it always changes hues after several hours of exposure to the moisture in the air. A lesson both Romano and his brother have learned the hard way several times.

After several minutes of wingardium leviosa practice, Romano admired his work. It wasn't perfect to how he imagined it to be, but when the due date of a project is drawing near one must use the resources they can scour up. The paper soaked up the paint exactly how he thought it would when he examined the pores.

He held out the painted cigar to Cuba who noted it looked kind of like a... "What does this look like?" Romano asked.

Cuba was quick to respond, "A churro." He still didn't get the point of this little art project; the two of them had a lot of work to do.

"Perfect. Tell me, Cuba. What would happen if I ate this right now?" the Italian asked with the beginnings of a smirk.

Cuba has eaten a raw cigar before. He would _never_ even think of doing it again. So his rushed, panicked alarm at Romano's suggestion was expected. "Don't! It tastes horrible!"

Romano frowned at the Cuban. "You still haven't put two and two together?"

Staring at the layers of brown and thinking of what Romano has said, Cuba racked his thoughts until a coherent idea sprang forth. "Are we going to feed Spain these 'churros'?"

That beginnings of a smirk crawled into a full-out small, wry grin. "Of fucking course we are. This prank will get a good reaction and doesn't involve blood."

Cuba was starting to understand where Romano was going as the Italian hastily scratched down notes before his conscious booted the information out of the mind. "And because Spain loves churros so much, he won't second guess their abnormal shape."

And with the simple phrase 'The bastard won't know what's coming' the two began their whirlwind preparations of painting and taping.

.:~:.

It was an absolutely glorious day for the Spaniard. Francis was sleeping comfortably next to him when he woke up, Señor Tortuga didn't escape from his cage, his morning orange juice had just the right amount of pulp, and he didn't sweat too many buckets after his run. So when the first day of his Madrid meeting came, Antonio was nothing but broad smiles and unicorn glitter. He also called Lovi earlier and asked what would be the best food to bring to the meeting, and the Italian said churros! The boy really did take after his former caretaker.

The only thing that could ruin this day would be one of those pranks his ex-charges cook up every year. And one always seemed to fall whenever he hosted. Sigh.

"I never know when they have these meeting, Francis! Just when I think I have a date picked out, next year it is completely different! Dios mío. I can't believe they hate me this much." Antonio's shoulders sagged as he explained his worries to his best French friend. He is also his only French friend, but that is beside the point.

"Don't worry, mon ami. If they truly hated you, you would have long been dead. Plus, I will be here to protect you from those animals you call charges," the blonde comforted, wrapping an arm around Antonio's shoulders.

Antonio sent a small glare at Francis, "Oi, they are my little brothers and sisters, too. Even if they are animals at times." The warmth from France's arm calmed the brunette. No need to worry... yet...

Rounding the next corner, the duo came up too see an idle Italy, the Northern half, in the middle of the wide hallway. Within his hands contained a clear, round tupperware meant for holding food. Or bugs, depending on your maturity level.

Antonio was slightly startled by the random appearance of the nation, thinking he was one of the awaiting ex-charges due to the Italian's tan-ish skin, but once he saw it was innocent Italy, he instantly calmed.

Upon seeing the other two nations, Italy immediately jumped and glanced in some random direction. But a small smile adored his face when he approached the two elder nations a second later. "Ciao, Spain! France! How are you doing today?"

"Hola, Feliciano! I'm doing great thanks for asking." At this moment, Spain noticed the tupperware the Italian was holding. It was the same one he pulled out of his cupboard this morning to place the churros in. Tilting his head, "Where did you get my churro box from?"

"Oh this?" He patted the top of the container. "I. Um. Ve." He cleared his throat and began speaking in a speech pattern that didn't seem quite normal to the Northern Italian. "I found this back in the meeting room and thought you would want a churro before the other fucking nations mauled them to death." Feliciano offered a wide grin to the silent nations.

The Italian didn't swear; has never uttered a curse word in his life. Maybe after the centuries, Romano was starting to rub off on him...

However, Spain's mind went blank with nothing but answering yes to his favorite deep-fried dessert after he heard the word churro. "Yes I would love one!" He replied, completely forgetting that they were his churros he baked last night.

Italy nodded and opened the container, offering its contents to the Spaniard. Cheerfully awaiting the oncoming sensations of good food, Spain plucked one of the churros from the box.

But... It seemed different. The coloring was right, but it was incredibly stiff... Not floppy like dough. It gave off the aroma of cinnamon, but didn't have the characteristic grooves.

If it is colored like a churro and smells like a churro, then it must be a churro. Besides, Spain was hungry.

Not halting at France's plea to wait, Antonio stuck the end of the pastry into his mouth and bit off half in one go; his white teeth chewing what was just put into his mouth.

The churro burst into an incredibly dry, papery texture, sucking all the moisture out of his mouth. The smell was like tobacco, clogging up his nose. The taste was horrid, burning his tongue and inside cheeks leaving a numb sensation. The Spaniard swore he felt lightheaded and loopy; he lost track of where Italy and France were standing. Hacking at the miniscule particles packed and circulating through his mouth, his eyes scrunched till the eyelashes were covered and his nose twitched back and forth like a bunnies. Bringing an arm up to cough the mixture onto, Spain backtracked his footing until he hit a solid, warm object, sending the both of them careening towards the floor in an ungraceful heap.

When the Frenchman and Spaniard finally found their footings, they didn't know when Feliciano dropped the container and made his mad flee to safety. They just saw the crime scene of not-churros scattered over the floor and a piece of paper with a troll face and the initials SHA.

And they certainly didn't know about the live feed that led to a lock picked room of nations laughing their asses off while enjoying Spain's actual churros.

**Author's Note:**

> People, NEVER eat a cigar/cigarette. They are meant to be smoked and you can die from ingesting the toxic chemicals that are processed into them.


End file.
